Wednesday, 16 March 2011


Wobble to the bathroom mirror,

slippers on formica tiles,

(older than they ever were)

stained a little, thin,

look on, and in, there for a hope of

stars or suns and galaxies

more light-years than pronounceable

and way beyond any dancing dust

but, no, I see a face;

misty in the silver, glass,

ancient as my father, yes,

fading now but, yes, with eyes

(retina and iris)

burning still, a facet.

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